


Mourning Boys

by CraigTuckerish



Category: DRAMAtical Murder
Genre: Alternate Universe - Real World, Crazy! Clear, Dysfunctional Relationships, Established Relationship, For Halloween, Growing Up, Inspired by Music, Long Shot, M/M, Marijuana, Mental Breakdown, Mental Instability, Murder, Obsessive Behavior, Physical Abuse, Two Shot, Unfaithful thoughts, Unhealthy Relationships, nadsat here and there, no sugar coating this is a really shitty fanfiction, not something to read if you want fluffy halloween noicle, schizophrenic behaviour, they might as well just hate each other it's miserable
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2014-10-31
Packaged: 2018-02-23 08:12:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2540660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CraigTuckerish/pseuds/CraigTuckerish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He what he did, and he died.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mourning Boys

 

[ **Chapter Track: Song of the Sad Assassin- Why?** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e3uviZFcakw)

 

We quickly learned that water was _not_ the way to go.

At first, we were strained with the initial relief of pulling back onto the highway. But Noiz had gasped, coming to me with a sharp, “Wait.” Just as I pulled to the first stop sign. He pointed out, “That’ll come back up.”

He said it in a shushed, panicked way that, just like my foot embedding the break to the floor, showed his fear and hesitation. But he was right. It’d be so obvious.

“What do we do?” He added, his usual stoic face plastered with a look of mortification, that planted a sickening guilt in me, and totally unlike himself. Totally lacking the competence he so prided himself on.

But he was right.

So I nodded. I knew it would be a huge, terrifying trouble to deal with the body again, to cart it around until we could agree on something, but I also knew that water would make out guilt easier to trace. Out of two poisons, keeping the body mobile was out best chance at evading capture too quickly.

I remember desperately thinking that it should have been Winter. Bodies don’t come back up in cold water. We’d have it better then, if I hadn’t been so jumpy with my hands.

But, it _had_ to be a sticky, heated September.

Noiz only sighed into his hands as I shifted gears and U-turned back to the lakeside. Where we thought we had departed for good a few moments ago.

“We fucked up, didn’t we?” He meekly asked through his fingers, as I pulled the wheel side lever that popped the trunk.

I opened my door, that triggered the rhythmic dinging of the car. While I thought of things to say, lies to ease him, I could only find myself saying that “ _Yeah. We really did.”_

 Fishing _him_ out was done in a bitter silence. It’d only been a few minutes since we dumped _him_ ; A few hours shy of his last breath. His skin rubbery, his blood pooling to his back, his limbs becoming stiff and his eyes trying to retreat back into the skull, Noiz gagged.

“Fuck, Clear,” He exasperated in disgust.

“It was both of us.” I was quick to point out, quietly, but convicted.

He didn’t say anything to me. He only looked at me in busy quiet, while I coddled the corpse in a blanket we had kept under the passenger seat. I took it upon myself to heave him and his formally vivid self up, and rolled him into the trunk.

_It’s probably going to rain tonight_ , I wanted to guess. Humid summer air was about to make me sick-like, and with my new infamous trait in hand, it only made me feel nauseous.

We then sat in the murky-smelling car.

He said my name, but I was trying to finish up some morbid thoughts of consequence.  He said it again, louder, meaner, to make me flinch to attention.

“Look at me.” His quivering throat produced.

I did so.

I faced him—A year older, but tears soaking his anxious cheeks. He took my hand, tightly, imploring me through his sobbing that “ _We’ll be okay.”_  

The way he drained his blame for the moment, eyeing me because we knew we had to stay together to keep ourselves safe, provoked nothing but a blooming guilt inside of me. He was only witness to my violence—Violence which, let me stress, _was never anticipated_ like this. I didn’t know I was violent, unless my incentive was not dying on his single-wide living room floor.

But I know now. And Noiz knows now. And it’s all a mess.

White brush aided us to the same stop sign as before, as then we could finally take a left and speed on the interstate without much fuss. It was a long twenty minutes of forest before I took his hand. Not was tightly as he (I couldn’t find a way too), but I meant it all the same.

“You know I’d never hurt you.” I said, my eyes glued to the road, but my shattered role of level-headed human being trying to recover itself. “You _do_ know that, don’t you?”

He only looked at the hand I had encased with my own.

I left it at that. So did he.

When we were back in town, the city lights only bittered our mood further. For now we fit. For now, we were usual citizens. But it was that _for now_ that made us anxious of what the next few weeks would bring.

He threw a passing jab, that “Remember to turn the damn headlights off when we get home.”, and I snipped back, “Why don’t you just drive, then?”

Noiz agreed, _fine,_ but after our pit stop.

God, we had to stop at his place. Aoba’s place. Because, as it’s clear, Noiz is only a juvenile, low-grade stoner. And that day, I had to put a smile on, bear Aoba’s smile, and pick a dub up. He claimed he wouldn’t smoke it, so did I, but we agreed to weave through our routine as best as possible. To save suspicion.

He spat at me to go get the bag while he situated into the driver’s seat. And since I undoubtedly owe him for the past hours, I was geared to trudge up some stairs and knock on the apartment door. Waiting under the small porch light glow, for the first sense of hate I would be feeling in a long time.

“Oh—Hey,” Aoba was surprised, expecting to see the blonde instead of me. We know it’s weird to stand like this, so he says, “Where’s Noiz?”

“In the car.” I smiled as politely as I could. I watched Aoba crane his neck, peeking into what little of the car he could see through the parking lights. They masked Noiz’s presence, eventually prompting Aoba to give up and let me inside.

“This is for him,” He said between some lazy yawn and plopping onto the couch next to his current other. A small bag of pot was tossed into my hands, and instantly shoved deep into my back pocket. Then I stood, fiddling with the rolled up sleeves of my shirt, and only said, “Thanks.”

Aoba and I never talked much after a certain bout of time. He made me uncomfortable- ungodly uncomfortable- and after my crush on him was ordered to be diffused years ago, I still caught myself fidgeting to flee a room he entered. Nothing changed then, I was staring at the graphic on my shirt, _praying_ that he wasn’t staring at me anymore. Like he used to. Because I would be bound to stare back.

I refused to let him initiate it, so I hurried out the “ _thanks”, “Be back next week”, “I’ll tell him hi, sure.”,_ and _“Later.”_ And returned to the passenger side of the car. But there sat Noiz in the same spot—then, I guess, refusing to drive. I groaned to myself before getting back into driver’s.

“You smoke too much.” I muttered as I carelessly dropped the bag in the center console.

“Just get us home. For Christ’s sake.” He replied.

I just obeyed. It was the least I could do, now, I figured. After standing within 6 feet of Aoba again. And while twisting through the roads that lead out of town and to his secluded home, I recalled how I never really took Noiz to be the time to live in a trailer home. He did love it, and was happy to get out of that lifeless mansion he had grown up in, but the weeds that tried to crawl up the side of the house, and the high grass that coated the spaces between other trailers, I simply never saw it coming. I never saw a lot coming.

The lukewarm feeling usually dispensed by walking into his single-wide was now blotched with other things. My clothes felt itchy, and burden-like, with nothing but _uneasiness_ coiling between our mouths. Words came like upchucking cement; We simply couldn’t bring ourselves to talk outside of, “bring the dub in, too.”

So that’s what we did. Within thirty minutes, it was a heavy feeling. Pot ended up in our systems anyway, and it is, indeed, something to pass the time when there’s a dead body in your boyfriend’s trunk.

He started crying again. But he told me, strict and straight, that there was a list to win his cooperation.

“You’ll quit my job for me.” He brought out with a spew of smoke. His words slow, as if hard to understand, and soaking with contempt.

“I’ll quit your job for you.” I accompanied with inexperienced fingers and a grudging lighter, I couldn’t get the flame to stay put, and my thumb was going raw already.

“—and do all the talking.” Noiz came to my aid, flicking the lighter and burning the crumbling plant inside the bowl.

“All the talking.” My voice strained by my burning throat, I produced a haze in my promise before coughing.

“And just… Clean my fucking car out tomorrow. That smell is minging.”

“Okay.”

So then that’s when I got my acceptance again. That’s how we bargained. With an award in his favour, and the prize of his affections. Though I know he loved me—he had to--, I did dread following these deals so often. But if that’s what it took in order to tend to him, I dealt.

But the tear-soaked smile that curled ironically on his lips manipulated me without realizing. His nappy hair messily hanging over his head, displaying most of his forehead, my adoration for him flared and I ended up making myself woozy with it. As was the habit of “us”.

The love I had for that nappyheadedness used to be a quirk, yet began to shoot me in the gut with ailment. I thought it was a case of “too much of a good thing”, or likewise, though I ultimately was found to be so, so wrong. It became a necessity, a nicotine patch, though to repel the thoughts of blue hair braided in my fingers. I _needed_ to be there to love him, just like he _needed_ me to be there and push the hair out of his eyes.

_But not now._ I scolded to myself. He’d just drape it back over his eyebrows anyway.

So we had this: A list of things to do with the body. The disposal, the object-reducing barrel methods, and we successfully rendered our victim as only a bag of waste to discreetly rid of. I told this plan to him, in careful but bare detail. I didn’t mention the stench I smelt on both of us. The one that made me angry for a billion vague reasons. I kept my focus outwardly unaffected while I felt that awful churning inside of me again. That used to feel like nothing more than a hum, but at that point, was a roaring buzz that protruded out of any sound I would hear otherwise.

It was hard to hear above my own head.

“Okay then,” Noiz concluded quietly, with a final huff of smoke and his hands lacing behind his head in a stretch, “Now, would be smart.”

“I can back the car up.” I dragged the keys off the coffee table.

“A rug?” he offered, as a cover.

“Deer.” I corrected, “It’s a deer you and I shot.”

“We don’t hunt.”

“We could start.”

I saw a slight gleam in his lips, and an amused snuff from his nose. Only barely. Only that I was looking for it did I see it.

Then we geared ourselves mechanically; With the eyes-closed-tight-but-can’t-plug-your-nose-up mindset when moving the carcass. Thankfully, our shallow hunting story never had to be told. It was too late for even us to be awake. But we were. We were far too lucid, with a swelled veck in our arms and grimaces peeling to our face.

Unwrapping him, I was the one to gag at the smell. I wasn’t expecting any less. The scent, as strong as it was, was a rounded earthy one. Ripe like body odor and flashing bits of the body’s relief into my head. The face was unrecognizable. Setting in that trunk for hours, it was bound to be worse than an hour of water time. Bloated. Greenish. Dead beyond belief.

So I let myself vomit into Noiz’s sink. The image of the body’s last easements—defecation, upchuck, piss—was just barely enough to provoke my gag reflex. My stomach barked at me, my throat began to ache, but my puke was embarrassingly _there_ for all to see. Noiz, right away, turned the faucet on, drowning my bile down with a stream of tap water. Completely unamused. Taking care of me in that sort of malankey way, but doing something nonetheless.

“I’m sorry.” I mustered, after I was sure the vomit had enough of itself.

He only stared at our chore. I did too.

The only thing I could say next, was the instant we headed for.

Garbage bags. And a lot of them. I was given the handsaw, remarking to myself that we were way more stoned than we needed to be. I might as well have been as drunk as he usually was, with what help I would be, but it was _my_ mess, and it was _my_ problem.

Thanking for what Bogsend, really, because my inebriation was all the fuel to ignore my boundaries. To hold the dull saw at the separation of torso and deltoid.

Thanking for what Bogsend, really, because my inebriation was all the fuel to grind the excuse of a blade into the skin, the bruised meat, and powering through until I heard the scraping of metal and bone. Oh, _Christ,_ that terrible sound made me wrench in my throat so badly, my whimper was met with a flinching throw of the saw.

I can’t do this, I should have said.

I’m not strong enough, I knew I wasn’t.

Noiz only looked at me. I couldn’t even make myself look back.

Within an hour, there were three full trash bags.

Noiz, only a privileged hostage, was laying on the couch when I tied the last one up. It was his idea to separate the remains into different bags, organized by “type of body part”, and he deemed that good enough to strand me in the kitchen. He stared my way, though not at me this time, with those damn earphones in and some obscene musical tapping emitting from the loud volume they were dialed to.

I stared at him though.

I didn’t wake him up when he drifted off.

I only acted like the unit I am, and cleaned. I cleaned, and smuggled, each individual bag being shoved into a hole dug under Noiz’s trailer. First the ‘Arm’ bag. Then the torso. Then the Legs, coupled with—the head, the awkwardly shaped bags cramed behind the grass that was overgrown. I only hoped it would be of nice as a camouflage until the next night.

Its smell made me grow even snottier against the wind. Me probably looking my worst, with dirt and stains of things I would describe as too dark to be mud, I finally gave myself the luxury of a wash. I fogged up the room as to refresh my skin a little, maybe, but only made me feel stuffed. and a little crowded.

The day was nothing but misery—Especially since 5PM, where I wrestled _him_ to the ground and crushed the life from himself with no more thought than to _win_.

The steam in that bath made me feel a tad plastic, something a splash of water to the face could have cured, but didn’t bother me too much to correct. I was too busy thinking of that face.

Noiz’s face, I mean. The one he gave me when _his_ chest fell still.

“... Did you just--?” He gasped, in the cautious accusation.

That was when my double-sided vision straightened.

_“Oh.”_

It was quiet. Like hopefully, in some Bogfull way, the empty air would undo this mistake. With the fingernails and the gorlo’s airway crumbled, it wasn’t much to throw us into that child-like silence-of-mortification. That split second when your parent charges to you, belt in hand.

But ehere was a dead person underneath me. I was still in attack set. And the answer was factual, non-biased that, yes, _I did just--._

I had murdered _him_ on impulse. My motives were even uglier than the nail marks in the sides of my _victim’s_ neck.

To win.

“… _Oh.”_ I repeated.

“I’ll, um—shit,” Noiz stammered, “Let me—“

I looked at him, in all his stumped glory, spitting out syllables of helpless speech. This was pointless. So I relieved him of his duty, simply marching wordlessly to the car and reached for the only logical idea: The trashbags and green blanket kept in our back seat.

Why had I put them there? I mean, they were unopened- I had told myself that I would use them to clean the trunk out anyways. It was a hoarded mess, and Noiz never cleans his car.

But I never did that.

So I walked my newly-terrified other through the agonizing stages of post-murder. My usual demeanor, the _reasonable_ demeanor, dissolved in minutes as I came to be like bossy. I got frustrated. I screamed a little— The buzz in my head deteriorating the filter I had planted in my head for so long. Unlike ‘myself’, but not standing out. Noiz was unlike himself, too; Those previous strings of ugly words becoming ones of obedience.

“The water,” I had offered on a whim, “Get him in there.”

“’kay.”

“Help me left him. Get the head.” Instructions were simple.

But a wry expression spread across his litso. “Can’t we just—roll him in?”

“Noiz. Just get the head.” I said louder, slower.

“Clear,”

“Are you going to help me, or not?” My patience running short.

“There’s got to be ano-“

“He. Is dead. He’s dead, my _God._ ”

“Just-“

“ _For Christ’s sake, Noiz—Get the damn head, lift him up, throw him in the water, okay??_ OR _do you want to fucking join him???”_

That was when he started looking at me. With that stupid dumb-tart expression. Strained, shocked eyes and mouth slightly agape.

With those stupid eyes brimming with water and not much more , he finally helped tote the corpse into the water.

 

* * *

 

_His_ clothes were nothing short of a lost cause. I had figured, you know, but laundry is a therapeutic thing. It’s a chore that some people (including me, prior to _Monday_ ) love to simply sort, and fold for a say.

_He,_ however, was of no such therapy. His clothes were whole, though complete with muddy lake water and the condensed smell of Noiz’s trunk and _rotten stink._

No load of clothes accompanied the light hoodie, the band t-shirt, the jeans, the red boxers, or the mismatched socks. My distressed leaked into my working joints, and then some, and I couldn’t bother myself with complaining. A little sick, with not feeling up to my usual enthusiastic home-making, I tried tirelessly to not notice the ache in my knuckles as they shoved clothing into the washer.

Noiz’s washer was stationed on the uneven concrete ground of what once was an old tornado shelter. It was equipped with working electricity, locks, and a space heater. I mostly recall us scrambling in the small space during storms in highschool, nipping at each other’s skin in the _we’re so not allowed to do this_ heat.

But now, the unleveled floor causing the machine to  wobble and make a terrible rattling sound is all that occupied the room.

I allowed myself to sit on the concrete floor and mull around in the racket. I was so tired. I contemplated curling up on the ground, then and there, just to maybe sleep.

I never sorted.

I never folded.

After sloshing some amount of detergent and scrubbing tide into the particular muddied textiles, I realized I could not help the smell of demise that was embedded into the fibers. So off the clothes went, quaking the machine, and doing is job as well as it could.

 

* * *

 

I couldn’t sleep. I dropped myself into a 30 minute brick state, but when I woke up, I felt no less exhausted. Just groggy and messy, despite my earlier shower.

Noiz had moved from his spot on the couch to our futon in the bedroom. I was glad to see that. He needed to sleep.

I insulted the air with ammonia, because I could not quite shake myself enough to settle under blankets. Dousing the kitchen’s fake tiling in it and scrubbing until I’m dizzy. The clean rag I kept pressed to my face to cover my mouth and nose was not enough to keep me from burning. My knees ached even more, but my limbs kept moving to get the stains—No, the idea of stains and my sloppy work _out of this floor._

I heard him call out to me, “Come to bed.” In that voice that lets me know that he was mostly asleep.

I try— _O. kay—_ but it was drowned by my clogged throat. Tears tried to surface, but I refused.

“Okay.” I attempted again. A gritty, feeble answer, but one he received.

I diluted the harsh chemical before pouring it out to drain in the sink. The floor was never as clean as it was then. I bullied at myself that, _hah, maybe putting my life at risk would get more things done_.

With some grace, I climbed into bed with him. He hadn’t waited up to fall asleep. But I draped my arm over him anyway, like always, dreading the swatting-away motion he would mostly likely use to banish my offer.

But it didn’t come that night.

He let me hold him.

My sleep eventually came to me, heavy and unwilling, but my hands still twitched a little. Even though I was holding him.

 

* * *

 

The morning was better, at first. We awoke to a mess of ashes coating the coffee table (since we had smoked all of Noiz’s bud in one setting), but other than that, traces were unseen. That was good. I tried to remind myself that I did a good job.

“Tonight,” I said, while our eye contact was still sleepy and connected, “We’ll—we’ll finish, okay?”

He looked at me. But said, “okay.”

So I quit his job, like I had promised.

I told his managers at that dead-end vending machine of an employer, that a family emergency had come up. Noiz was at home, packing, for us to travel to Germany and see them.

They hesitated, maybe with reserve for my tone of voice, but came to terms quickly.

No more job.

While still being in the haze of _we are so not allowed to do this_ , he advised to cut all contact.

Maybe, we thought, we _should_ go to Germany.

But money wouldn’t allow it. So we re-settled on ridding of limbs, and trying to evade capture. Which was impossible. But all we had to go by at the moment.

Once home, I offered to make him some food. My hair was unbrushed and hoping for the love of _God_ that he would still look at me like he did that morning. A small unrealistic daydream of him cocking a nervous grin and combing through my hair with his fingers came to mind. But he only plopped back on the futon and said, “ _I’m tired.”_

Of course, there wasn’t much I could do. So I slept, too. Sleeping was all we did those first few days.

He did let me hold him each time we fell to the brick of rest, though. It might have been pity.

It was dark when we woke up. The sunlight that illuminated the living room previously, was now that sickening dark that only held a hint of the forgotten bathroom light, which was on. My eyes adjusted to this scene, the nostalgia of stumbling into a similar room drunk, silently giggling, now huddled on the couch, trying not to breathe too loud.

We thought we were such hot shit back then.

I could have laughed. Because now, we were _in_ hot shit.

I kissed his neck awake, like I always remember him enjoying, murmuring his name to redeem what I could. Noiz has never been a waking up kind of person. But he finally came to his consciousness, and his eyes were far less accusing than yesterday at this time.

“You said we’d finish tonight.” He lulled out, “you want me t’help?”

I couldn’t help it. I smiled.

“No, it’s fine baby. Go back to sleep.”

I wanted us to kiss. But we didn’t. It’s not like it was blameful, I wouldn’t want to kiss me anymore, but the offer of help made my chest swell.

That was the second night after the murder. I took _his_ bones from underneath the trailer. It wasn’t too late. Yellow lights shown from other trailers in the area indicated that the children were still up, though minutes shy of bedtime, and the time zone was just now starting to bottleneck its activity.

My activity wasn’t near finished then. I lugged the _arms, torso, leg-and-head_ bags into the laundry room. Sound proof. Showed no signs of active members through the cement.

Perfect for the sledgehammer I so grudgingly held. My knuckles were more eager than my tongue, since I bit it in a terrible wail with my first swing down.

_CRACK_

Second, _CRACK_

Third, _thump_

_Fourth, thump_

_Fifth, CRACK_

I was so careless.

The hammer tore holes through the Glad bags.

But the bones, the bloated meat, was only reduced. To sorry excuses for dust and ground edibles. I was breathing like I never knew how up until that point. Feeling savage and rushed in the basement-like environment, repeating the same _swing, CRACK, swing, CRACK_ , like a strip of film doomed to loop. Tired. Wanting to be in my worn futon with my worn boyfriend and our worn front of being healthy anymore.

I spread _his_ remains. His head remained in the laundry room, lifeless and deformed, yet watching all the wrong I was doing to him. I could never bring myself to even hide it. So that's why it's still there, on the washer.

But I thought it’d be nice to be rid of the rest of him. So  _his_ hands would avenge his death, and his stare was all he could do to me. I thought it'd be easier.

To stand in the empty space of forest surrounding the trailer park, spinning myself around in a ridiculous circle, tossing bits of bone and flesh into the brush. To close my eyes and leave the debris to fling from me, from the hands that inflicted it, and to stand in the dark when my eyes open.

I thought it was easier when I saw nothing.

It pleased me.

 

* * *

 

TV was all I requested when I trudged through the back door. I collapsed onto my bed, nearly wanting to weep from relief, that the body was gone, and relishing in my fraction of freedom at this point.

Noiz shuffled from his spot on the bed.

It was as peaceful as it could have been.

It was 11PM, though, when the doorbell rang for us.

Instantly, we hushed out “Oh _fuck.”, because this was “fucking bad” and I needed to “answer the damn door”._

Our bodies raced to look natural, Noiz hurriedly retreating into the bedroom and hissing that he wasn't coming out until whoever it was _left_. I jammed my face to the peephole to expect the dreaded dark blue of police. I was only met with a softer, lighter blue of someone’s hair.

Aoba was there.

Aoba was there _alone_.

Noiz was huddled in the bedroom. Noiz didn’t want to come out unless I said so.

So I said, “Hi.”

He said, “Hi. Is Noiz here?”

My face would have screwed up, but it didn’t. I lied for him. I answered, “No, he has work tonight. Why?”

His slender fingers nervously fidgeted with his hair. I know the way he bit his lip and looked up at me was provocative. I know I was falling for it. My mind struggled to have control.

_He’s just so goddamn beautiful._

“I just haven’t seen him in a few days.” Aoba said. “Is everything, like, okay?”

Those pianist fingers, with the trimmed nails and un-callused skin reached towards me. They grazed my Adam’s apple, like they used to. They trailed to the back of my neck, _like they used to_ , and they rested on my shoulder. Like they used to.

“I’m worried about you guys.” He said.

My head, cloudy with his skin even being acquainted with mine, only produced a “We’re fine, Aoba.” In response. Undoubtedly succumbed. The sexual tension ever-living between us being clear as day.

“… Kay,” the beauty said quietly. Like he used to.

“… I’ll call you when I can.” I said back. Like I used to.

“Noiz too.”

“Yeah.”

He smiled and fixed his bangs.

Then he left.

Then he left, and I slid down the closed door, and I heaved some heavy breaths into  my hands. Aching to cry. But couldn’t produce the shit or spit to do so.

Like I used to.

As is habit.

 

* * *

 

That night, Noiz was gratefully generous.

With the stress, with my hair in mats, with my fingernails unlike Aoba’s and chewed down to bloody skin, he finally kissed me.

“We’ll be okay,” he told me again, Snakebites digging so softly and tantalizingly into my lips. He smelled like the bottom of a hamper, teenaged, only striking me as refusing to mature.

Aoba always smelled like cinnamon and pomegranate shampoo.

But, Aoba wasn’t the one who fiddled with the waistband of my sweatpants, taking every word he could to build me up. It began to work in our favour. As is habit, the thought of blue hair trickling over my abdomen diminished when his tongue piercing made its way to the grey area between my legs.

The TV glowing in some muted infomercial behind us, I saw the whites of his eyes angled up at me. He watched carefully for my reactions, the small buck in my hips when his tongue ran over that _one spot_ , or that whine I could never keep myself from emitting when he would tighten his grip. His stroked uneven and inexperienced, it always pushed Aoba from my mind. Which is what I needed.

All these details I pinned to him, yet I quickly sealed myself to keep my eyes close.

_You’ll ruin it if they’re open._

Because Noiz’s mouth was enough for me that night. Those prompting pieces of metal that forced precum to coat his fingers and motivate his head. It would have been embarrassing to tell him I loved him then.

He’s always been enough, despite what the hormones that Aoba stirred up said.

Him, and his loveable insults, drunken rampages, and fingermarks around my throat.

Yeah, that was just about it. Those things happened.

Noiz always left no choice but to climax, my mouth letting his name roll out as he pressed to prolong the sounds of it, and swallowing what I couldn't help but offer.

It never changed that he did what he could, though.

I was close to crying after that climax.

 

Habit. Like I used to. Etc.

 


End file.
